When Adam and his wife had been dismissed, and the three were sitting on the darkling verandah, watching the vermilion west, Miss Smith reminded them that she had the bread to "set" for next day. Bertha and Durgan were playing cards. She went through the dining-room to the kitchen at the back of the house. She was not gone long, barely half an hour; the sky had scarcely faded and the lamp but just been lit, when she came back calm and gentle as ever.
Durgan was not calm. He felt his hand tremble as he brought from the shelf a book which Bertha had asked for.
Ten minutes before a contention had arisen between himself and Bertha as to the time of the moon's rising. To satisfy himself he had walked on the soft grass as far as the gable of the house nearest his footpath. Watching a moment in the shadow, he had heard a movement in the wood. As the first moon-rays lit the gloom he saw the figure of a woman standing on the low bough of an old oak and reaching a long arm toward an upper branch. All the oaks here were stunted and easy to climb. That this was Adam's wife he did not doubt, till, when she had lightly jumped down, he discerned that she was returning attended by the dogs.
Durgan went back hastily lest Bertha should follow him. He reported only the rising of the moon. A moment's thought convinced him that he had been invited that evening for the purpose of keeping Bertha from the knowledge of her sister's excursion. No one but Miss Smith could have taken the dogs. He guessed that she had fulfilled some promise to the boy, 'Dolphus—some promise given him on the slip of paper in the bank-note, of putting money where he might seek it. Amazing as the method resorted to was, Durgan felt no doubt that Miss Smith's action was wise and right in her own eyes, but he was convinced that she was putting herself in danger.
He lingered a little while, not knowing what to do. Then he spoke of 'Dolphus, taking occasion to explain the extreme distrust he felt concerning the man and the degraded nature which so many of this class had exhibited.
Both sisters seemed interested, but not greatly.
"Of course, we never thought whether we liked or disliked him," cried Bertha. "That is not the way one thinks of men like that. We knew him to have been unfortunate; and he is certainly very ill."
Miss Smith said, with a kind smile lighting up her face: "I think, Mr. Durgan, you don't mean that even a 'thieving yellow nigger' hasn't an immortal soul. Even if we can't get real religion into his mind, we can show him kindness which must help him to believe in the mercy of God—not" (she added in humble haste) "that I have ever been kind to him, but I guess Birdie tried to be this morning."
Durgan was never far from the thought that the slave-owning race was responsible for the very existence of a people who had been nourished and multiplied in their homes for the sake of gain.
"Not only for the soul he has, but for the diseased body of him, for all that he suffers and for all the injury he does—he and all his class——" Durgan stopped. Both women were looking at him inquiringly. "Before God I take my share of the blame and shame of it. But it is one thing to be guilty, and another to know how to make reparation. Take an illustration from the brood of snakes in the cliff here. In some slight way you are responsible even for their existence, for you ought to have had the parents killed. But you cannot benefit this brood by kindness; you would wrong the world by protecting them. Believe me, I have been reared among these people; I know the good and bad of them; a rattlesnake is less dangerous than a man like this 'Dolphus. While I would defend such fellows as Adam with my life, if need be, I believe that I should do the best thing for the world in killing such creatures as 'Dolphus and Adam's wife. While such as I ought to bear the punishment of their sins and our own in the next world, the best reparation we could make in this world would be to slaughter them."